In the Rain I’m Coming Back to You
by DnKS-giRLs
Summary: On that rainy day long past, he walked away from England, leaving him, abandoning him. But he had come back to England afterward, and stayed.


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**Title** : In the Rain (I'm Coming Back to You**)**

**Author** : DnKS – giRLs

**Rating ** : PG

**Character(s)/Pairing(s)** : America and England

**Disclaimers** : The characters involved in this story do not belong to us, nor do they have any connection to real nation(s). No infringement intended.

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America blamed the moody and somewhat evil English weather as soon as the first raindrop hit his head. With a brief, flashing thought of 'oh, shit', he looked up to the sky. What had a few minutes ago seemed like a perfect autumn sky—or as perfect as it could be for England's sky, at least it was _mostly_ blue—now looked so overcast with dark clouds. The sound of thunders was loud in the air. And in less than ten seconds afterward, it was raining so hard until it seemed like the sky was pouring down.

Well, America thought as he swiped his wet hair away from his face, _fuck_.

His shirt was already plastered wet to his body when he arrived at England's doorstep some minutes afterward. He knew he looked really stupid, standing there with rainwater still dripping from his body. The coldness started to seep into his skin and America's eyebrows twitched. It would be really stupid if he caught a cold because of the rain.

England's front door was opened the moment America blew his nose on his sleeve. England, who, like always, looked so pristine with his vest and tie even in weekends, regarded him with a frown.

"You're wet," were the first words that came from his lips.

"That's really one astounding observation, England," America said.

England's frown only went deeper. "And you're sarcastic."

America rolled his eyes. He was ready to give some more sharp remarks to show England how sarcastic he could be while shivering on his doorstep when England's warm hand touched his cheek. The concern he could see in those green eyes made him halt his tongue and keep his silence.

"God, America, you're freezing," England said. He had that look on his face that made America know that he would soon be lectured on how stupid it was to walk in a rain like that. But England did not lecture him. He merely opened his door wider and ushered America inside.

"Wait here," England said sternly once they were both already in the hallway of his house. And seeing that he had no other option but to obey, America did that. He stood alone on England's hallway as England walked into his house. The rainwater was still dripping from his body, and by the time England came back with a towel in his hands, there was already a small puddle of water around his feet.

"Okay," England said, approaching him. "Strip."

America needed several moments to blink, thinking that the rain had finally messed with his brain, before he spluttered, "What?"

"Strip, America. I won't have you dripping all over my house," England said. "What? Did you just think that I was going to… do something to you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," America mumbled. He fiddled with his clothes, shedding them off, and dropping them to a wet pile on England's hallway. "I mean, it's you after all."

"I will pretend that you did not mean your words _that_ way," England said as he brought the towel to America's head and began drying his hair. "Honestly, you. Why did you even walk here in this kind of rain?"

"It wasn't raining when I left my hotel," America said. He had already finished shedding his clothes off then, leaving only his boxers, and took the towel from England's hands to dry his body. "It's your weather, I tell you. It's evil."

"You should know by now how London's weather tends to be," England said. He took America's arm, guiding him into his house. "Come, you need some shower before you catch a cold."

"I won't catch a cold just because of some rain," America said stubbornly, though he did follow England when the other led him to his en suite bathroom.

"Yes, I know idiots can never catch a cold," England mumbled as he but shoved America into his bathroom. "I'll find some clothes for you."

"Hey!" America said, but he was facing the closed door as England had already left the bathroom and shut the door close on his wake. Somehow that annoyed him. It was not like he hoped England would be all warm and caring over him, but at least he could have showed a little bit more affection when his damn lover was coming to his house through a rainstorm.

He grumbled low under his breath and started the shower.

America sighed in happiness when the first spray of warm water hit his body. His fingers and toes had gone so very cold in that rain that the warm water that ran between them felt really heavenly. He took his time with his shower, enjoying the feeling of warm water on his skin. And after he finished, he reached for some fresh towel from the bathroom rack.

And stilled.

While it was true that England had never been particularly expressive in his love for his country, he did have his moments. He did not show it like America, who would don the stars and stripes anywhere, for his bed sheets, his shirts, his boxers, even. England would never condone such extent of blatant display. He would show his respect to his country in a more discreet manner.

Like embroidering the corner of his towels and linens with his coat of arms, for example.

It was the sight of that sigil, so very familiar to him, that made him stand still. His fingers absently traced the lines of the embroidered coat of arms of the United Kingdom, and pondered. One of the things he pondered about was how England was so good at embroidery. And another was about how, centuries ago, he also had the similar arms embroidered to his every kerchief and sheet.

Centuries ago, America thought as he still stared at the coat of arms. And centuries ago it was also raining when he metaphorically threw the arms back at England. Centuries ago, it was raining when he walked away from England.

Centuries had passed, and at that time, when America stared at that coat of arms, he did not feel the bitterness, the rage, the pain, like what he felt should he chance his eyes upon the very same arms centuries ago. He smiled and grabbed the towel.

England was busy in his kitchen putting his wet clothes to his laundry basket when America found him after he finished his shower. He watched the scene with amusement, noticing the way England frown when he scrutinized his drenched shirt. Without word, he approached him. But, really, he did not need any word. They did not need any word. For England already knew, already sensed his presence even before he was close enough to him.

"Finished with your shower?" England asked. Then without waiting for a response he turned his body and placed his hand against America's forehead. "You don't seem to be having a fever. Good."

America only grinned. "Told you I wouldn't catch a cold just because of the rain."

"Are you admitting to be an idiot?" England asked.

"I'm admitting to be a hero," America said. He moved to stand behind England and embraced his waist loosely. "After all, a hero wouldn't catch stupid thing like a cold just because of some little rain."

England snorted, but he did lean back until he rested his back against America's chest.

"I doubt the rain we're having now is fit to be called 'little'," England remarked.

"Hmm," America mumbled. "Is it still raining outside?"

"Yes," England answered. He seemed to be contemplating for a moment before he carefully asked, "America, is something wrong?"

America did not answer that immediately. He merely tightened his hold on England's waist.

"Nothing's wrong," he said. "I'm just glad I can come back to you in this rain."

In his arms, America could feel England tensing for a second before his body relaxed again. It was all he needed to know that England understood what he implied in his statement. But England did not say anything, did not question him. He merely rested his head on America's shoulder, moved his hand and placed it on top of America's own hand.

It was all he needed to know that England, too, felt the same.

They stood there, listening to the rain. In America's mind he recalled that rainy day long past when he walked away from England, leaving him, abandoning him. But he had come back to England afterward, and _stayed_. He had left him once, yes, and he did not regret it, could not regret it for he knew it was for the best. But he had come back to England and, by God, he did not regret that too. Not even a bit.

**End**

(**A/N: **Yeah, so it's been raining lately, so we wrote this fic. Absurd reasoning, you say? Oh, perhaps. But we would really appreciate it if you would kindly leave your review for this fic that came from such an absurd reasoning. Thank you for reading.)


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